On Warhammer
by awilla the hun
Summary: In which you are provided with an informal and informative guide to the art of Warhammer 40k. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

On Warhammer

By Awilla the Hun

Part I: Choosing an Army

When starting out on warhammer (one of the greatest joys this world has to offer), one of the first things you shouldn't do is ask the assistance of your local hobby store. This is for several reasons, all of which bring about one of the least enjoyable times this world has to offer.

"So," says the blue shirted, dorito munching manager, "what do you want to squander two hundred pounds and thousands of man hours on?" Well, actually, he doesn't say that; I just made that up. But one can sense that it isn't far from his mind.

You inform him that you have succumbed to the temptation of choosing Space Marines. This immediately sets the manager off on a frenzy of suggestions, which even distracts him from his eating.

"Well, you are in luck," he says with a broad, red tinged smile. "You see, there's just been a new release." (There always has just been a new release, you know. No one knows why; it's the natural law of things in Games Workshop.) "A pack of marvellous new Rear-Guard Marines," he explains. "Beautifully sculpted-as you can see from our expensive new box art, there's one of them standing on the skull of a fallen Daemonette, with his bolter poised to fire between his legs. And that guy there's pointing his bolt pistol-well, actually, a master crafted bolt pistol, that's why we've put all the gubbins on- vertically upwards. The heavy weapons trooper's on one knee, offering his lascannon-I'm sorry, only lascannons come with this boxed set for heavy weapons, you must get everything else in metal that costs exponentially more than this- up to the Emperor for a blessing."

You express your interest, and then realise that you will be giving away your pension, kidney, family's kidneys, and probably your body to science, just to get five models. "They count as tactical squad marines, of course," the manager goes on, still smiling, "but they're worth every penny!"

You nod, and look up at the codex- it's another new one (the Space Marines, the manager explains, get them every six months), and this time features a large man in Terminator Armour with an extremely belligerent expression on his face. "It will only cost you your house, of course," the manager explains as you fork out the cash. (Well, not in those words, but in intent.) "But it's worth every penny!"

So, presuming that you have spent your every penny on twenty exquisitely sculpted marines, five terminators, a Librarian, some bikers, and so on, the manager asks you with exquisite politeness about how you want to paint them.

"Well," you say, gasping slightly from the pain of having to sell your soul in order to buy the terminators, "I was considering Ultramarines."

This sets off a chorus of advice from all the previously sinisterly silent painting table a few metres away.

"Well, you see," starts a guy who appears to have considered Big Bertha an ideal date, and who was sizing up accordingly, "one thing you won't be using is Ultramarines Blue."

"Why not?" you ask.

"Because it's six octaves down."

"But it says Ultramarines Blue."

"Well," says Big Bertha's hubbie to be with a worldly chuckle, "those labels are just advisory."

"Doesn't the word 'Ultramarines' imply something to do with the Ultramarines Chapter?"

The painters all look at you blankly.

"So," says the aforementioned Big Bertha fan, "you'll need four pots of Enhanced Blue, two of Darkened Blue, one of Irksome Brown, Four point five eight layers of Skull Black, another pi layers of Doused Red, one Imperial Litre of Primer, and an HB Paintbrush. Is that understood?" You look up from your smoking pad of notepaper and nod.

"That's just the undercoat," someone pipes up cheerily (usually whilst wearing a "Thrashmetal 4EVER" leather jacket and a haircut that is only naturally seen on anime characters.) "The overcoat, of course, requires wool. And the middle coat needs the juices from taking Dave's mom."

Dave (a guy wearing a wildly optimistic "Sex God 2010" T Shirt) seems to take offense at this, but is shunted aside by yet more suggestions.

Now, trust me, the worst thing you can do is actually take heed to any of them. This is because you will find that the list goes through every colour of visible light, as well as quite a distance off the electromagnetic spectrum, and will involve at least eighteen different types of flock, most of which are only going to be of the slightest use if your army is fighting through-let us say- a lake of custard like that man off Braniac. (And, just so you know: they're normally going to be shooting through Osgiliath-"all the tables have been used up, but there's a Rings one out back"-, a Stalingrad impersonation society entry, or a grassy plain, two hills, a tree, and a largish ruin.) The best response is normally to just say, with an understanding nod-"So this is why you're getting through the recession." This usually renders the staff speechless for a sufficient length of time so as you can pay at the till and run away without getting any more suggestions.

Of course, then you get to deciding on the background. You return to the shop, army painted, and start naming officers. This of course attracts some considerable attention.

"Well," you explain, "I'm doing the Ultramarines Fourth Company. Like in the Codex."

"Right," says an uninterested adolescent with arrestingly large glasses (and I mean truly arrestingly large: the Hubble Telescope crew would have needed them.) "Well, I'm collecting Space Marines too."

"Oh good."

"Well, you see, I'm doing my own chapter. They're called the Shit Kickers, led by Master Leeroy Jenkins." He looks around for amusement, finds none, and returns to his story. "Anyway, their colour scheme is dark brown, and they're originated from the great Angry Marines Chapter."

One person (whose jumper makes him look like a nineteen thirties homosexual) bursts out laughing for no accountable reason.

"Well," says someone else, "I'm doing the Angels of Anarcho-Capitalism. They're Anarcho-Capitalist Marines," he adds significantly, "and they believe in the teachings of their chapter master the great Heffingtunbob Smygley. To give you a brief overview, it goes like this."

And they leave you to shuffle out in silent despair.

Of course, the only worse thing you could do is going onto the Internet for advice.

"OMG! Another Smurf Noob Rhino Rusher! LOLOLOLOLOLOL I WILL PWN YOU BEOTCH!" someone says amiably on a forum that I will call (for the sake of anonymity) LibraTauSeer dot com.

"Remember teh sepulchre," says someone else, with a symbol that you never knew existed appearing on a post.

Girlygamer (a rare breed, you think to yourself, and after carefully scrutinising her avatar of a Dark EldarWych in a state of undress, reconsider her sex or sexuality altogether) points out that, alas, an Eldar Craftworld has a population of about eight point five quadrillion, so they will unleash unutterable devestation. "And they will never lose, because their farseers CAN SEE THE FUTURE!"

This prompts a half dozen responses from some called Darth Wong saying that, actually, the Galactic Empire is several factors of HAXXORNESS above the Imperium. "And all its alien buddies," he adds. "So STFU 40K NOOBS."

In this spirit, the forum continues.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2: Building your army

Awilla's guide to making a model.

Step 1: Check it is the right model. If it is not, then go back to the shop ASAP and pray that the manager can stop eating Doritos for long enough to give you a refund.

Step 2: Open your pot of glue. If it has randomly frozen up, got blocked, or otherwise fails to work, return to step 1.

Step 3: Get modelling clippers. Try to keep these away from small children, large children, household pets, the elderly, overconfident Games Workshop Staff, parents, and so on.

Step 4: Start cutting parts away from sprue, and prepare to assemble. It is likely that parts may be missing, or illogically made (having a cube shaped box consisting of a lid, four plastic sides, and another spare plastic side for no reason, for example.) Ignore these, and think of England.

Step 5: Glue parts together.

Step 6: Remove someone's bolt pistol from your T Shirt.

Step 7: Fail in this.

Step 8: Get high on glue.

Step 9: Accidentally drink your own paint water due to Step 8.

Step 10: Rush to toilet making distressed noises. Vomit. Return to painting station. The Space Marine smiles up at you innocently.

Step 11: Why did Games Workshop make them like that? Why?

Step 12: Your fingers are now permanently fixed together. You call for help.

Step 13: You realise that you have no girlfriend or family to help you.

Step 14: The Space Marine is still smiling.

Step 15: Fingers are prised apart with mass application of tap water.

Step 16: Is that the time already?

Step 17: Stop smiling, dammit!

Step 18: Model is glued together. You regret doing an all infantry Space Marine army.

Step 19: A thought is spared for people who make masssed armies (like the ingenious author.) But not for long.

Step 20: Get out the paintbox. It's time to go!

Step 21: The Space Marine grins with idiotic pleasure as his armour receives the first lick of spray paint.

Step 22: Consult Citadel Minatures Painting Guide for hints.

Step 23: Find it full of photographs, but light on advice comprehensible to anyone bar Leonardo da Vinci.

Step 24: Weep at your own inadequacy.

Step 25: What does "gloss" mean, anyway?

Step 26: "Why, O Lord, why?"

Step 27: Stop smiling!

Step 28: Those jeans will never be the same again.

Step 29: The model has his fourth layer of undercoat.

Step 30-108: Layer by layer, you paint it to Citadel standard.

Step 109: Only 75 to go.

Step 110: He's got the wrong weapon! Return, frustrated, to step 1.

Step 111: Get to the shop, and find that you've glued his jet pack on upside down.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3: Gaming

Many have pondered the question over the millennia, whether around camp fires with the enemy mud huts over the other side of the valley, staring out into the darkness of the night as the tribal drumming grows ever louder, or in Chateaus with well stocked drink's cabinets and the constant pounding of heavy artillery close by, with the trenches being dug and thousands of men fixing bayonets and making ready: what makes a good general? Punctuality? Book learning? Willingness to learn from others?

Well, all those are important, of course; but I would argue from experience that, in a normal gaming environment, multi tasking is by far the most important:

"All right, mate-how's life? Oh, siiiick! Soz you can't make next week, I don't bother with this revision shizzle myself, too much like hard work. Right, well, we've got this table set up and ready, and yeah, I've got Star Trek Online- graphics are awesome, especially- ah, yeah, you roll my dice for me, I trust you mate- awesome, especially when undressing my weapon's officer! Yeah, I heard they used Megan Fox for modeling-hope she's in the expansion too, and speaking of models, it looks like we've got a Spearhead Deployment Annihilation mission, and I'm deploying first. Nice one! I'm putting my tactical squad in these bushes and my assault squad in that ruin there- yes, the Chapter Master's leading, call him Steve, has a TH-SS combo. Anyhoo… that tournament next weekend sounds cool; it really does, with the new Spearheads an' that-d'you want to see my I-pod? You do? Great- that Predator's going in between the two hills- and the new Freddie Mercury Remix is being flicked on. Woah! Sure are the Champions, your turn to deploy now mate, yeah my eye's to'ally on the ball there, don't miss a trick, and yeah I've just reached level 98 with my Druid-second prestige, called Izkierka, in the Garrand's Stand server, not OP like those bozos on Highfeldt-oi! Dave! Come here, you sexy beast, you! I've got a tenner that's begging for some McNuggets, and it wants 'em next time you're off to Maccy Dees, so get going, and I'd suggest, seeing as you're new, that the Russ goes on the hill- it could get trashed if it rolls through that difficult terrain, and my Tac-Mars have melta-cookers, oh, and Stu! Bluie-shirtie-Stewie! I know I can't eat in the shop, but I could pop out all the same…"

Whilst doing this, of course, our player is doubtless looking, sizing up the opposition, the board. Every angle of fire is known to his (it is 'his' with alarming regularity) laserlike brain, every rule about every patch of cover. That fold in the battlemat from moving rulebooks- could I justify that? Possibly, every 4+ save counts, even if the foe's a Sallie-Vulkan-Twin Redeemer noob.

And, as he takes in his opponent, he begins to sort them into one of several categories.

Category 1: The Role Player. This player knows all there is to know about his army. He, whether dressed in robes, t-shirt, or a jumper that makes him look like a 1930s homosexual, can wax lyrical for hours about every little aspect-his General's exam results, forcing him to take up the sword-the guard sergeant, holding his chainsword _like that_, who brought down a Chaos Lord once, but can never quite replicate it on the battlefield-or the Leman Russ, down to the last slightly dented caterpillar track. Of course, all this is fine, unless he takes it too seriously…

"Ah!" says he, unloading box after boxload of poorly painted guardsmen, each with an enormous red and gold symbol on the breastplate, "Prepare to die, Counter Revolutionary Pig-Dog!" And, before you can say anything, much less say good morning, he launches on. "Prepare to face the wrath of the Proletariat, led by the champion of the toiling classes-Comrade Chariman Stall-Lenton's Popular Guards! They're a quasi Maoist-Bolshevik movement, with a touch of Gramsci thrown in. Basically-" and that's where your brain usually turns off, as squad after squad is unloaded, named, given a quota of Imperialists to kill, and placed reverently into their own custom made, magnetized skirmish movement tray. Of course, every drop of grass is of deep, almost spiritual ("but we are atheists, comrade, so it is 'Popular Willist'") significance. When he starts singing military marches as his troops advance, teeth must be gritted.

The big advantage when facing the Role Player, however, is that he may know everything about his army, but precious little about the game. His army may have replica TigerRattes f(2) from the SS Fuhrerkopf Regiment, but they only count as a Leman Russ. Those batteries of heavy weapons, whilst they may be painstakingly adopted from Red Army patterns, are also most likely pointless against your army. This allows you to take him apart with relative ease whilst he tears at his hair crying "Fight to the last drop of blood, Comrades! Your fathers are dead, your brothers are dead, so only you can spread the Counter Culture of Revolution! Crush these Imperialists, or I'll take all your families hostage! Fight, Comrades! My mouth may be foaming, but fight…"

The rare exception, however, is a role player who isn't a bombastic ass, but is in fact a veteran who has played for many years but, with a postmodern eye for humour, has decided to deliberately limit himself, and practice his writing skills, by taking a "joke army". These people are to be feared like the wrath of Abaddon himself. If you face one-shake hands at turn 1, and spend the rest of the time comparing your weapons officers in Star Trek Online.

Category 2: The Roll Player

This gamer isn't necessarily that competent. Often, quite the reverse. However, their main strength is simple: rolling as many dice, as many ways, as humanly possible, and "accidentally" flicking them over. The scatter dice, in his view, is always pointing _just _a bit further to the left (so the Vindicator hits your own Chapter Master), and he often has scientific data to prove it. A favored tactic is to roll all his shooting dice for one squad at the same time, preferably on top of-say-last turn's close combat results, the one with those Witchblades and Fate, Doom, poison attacks and whatnot, and only afterwards work out exactly which weapon is which. After the game, your vigilance should only increase; he may accidentally make off with some of your dice.

In a tournament setting, the easy way to deal with him is by telling a judge that something is wrong (allegedly this is the easy way, at least.) However, in the local GW, this won't work, as it will simply make you the butt of numerous jokes from the inevitable mass of unkind onlookers. (Warhammer is, as you will soon discover, a spectator sport. One thing worth remembering is that the crowd is _always _against you, always asking the enemy "Have you owned him yet?" and other such witty remarks.)

Category 3: The Kid

The player known as "The Kid" can be roughly divided into three sub sections. The first two, however, look roughly the same. The little boy or girl (this group, more than any of the others, has females- roughly 10% or so, demonstrating remarkable GW enlightenment towards gender) is incredibly tiny, usually dwarfed by massive school rucksack and gaming suitcase (full sized grey, more often than not.) On their face are spectacles, on their bodies school uniform, and they overall seem remarkably young, innocent and pure for a universe full of laughing, unspeakably evil gods and Space Marines roaring canticles of crushing unbelievers. At their sides are their parents, and these deserve a mention all of their own; either remarkably Yummy Mumsy Mums twittering nervously, or worn down, slightly stout types for women, with a firm eye on their purses and an odd glance directed at the Blueshirt; and, for men, balding Dads in leather jackets, trying their best to understand what's going on, laughing laddishly with their kids, even when the Role Player opens up in full flow. Both genders of parent, however, have much the same kind of response when the Blueshirt explains the universe.

"So, there's this God, yeah, Emperor, and leads humanity on a bloodthirsty great crusade against aliens, right, and his eldest son leads a rebellion, and all hell breaks loose, and there's been ten thousand years of non stop slaughter, tyranny and bloodshed, *munch Doritos*, and these Ultramarines are the only heroes left, so can I have £50 please for their starter set please?"

"Umm… well, Gerald, you've got a 50m swimming certificate, hasn't he, nyes, Gemima-Tabitha has danced so _wonderfully_ -absolutely!" The parent thrusts their wallet into the Blueshirt's hand, and scurries off to Starbucks. The Blueshirt smiles, winks, and bends down to kid height.

"Want a game, sonny?/missy?" asks he, not offering any crisps (Order No. 666 forbids it.) The Kid, bug eyed, accepts and, surrounded by a baying mob of adolescents, sets forth.

It is when gaming against other players, however, that the Kid begins to emerge into differing categories. The First is "The Young One". This Kid, standing on tiptoe to look at the board and table pieces (painstakingly put together in the tutorial sessions) pokes at his Space Marines, and recites his battle plan out loud. ("Now, you shouldn't know this, but this is Minus Calgar! He has a power fist! Deesh! Boosh!") He, at best, doggedly tries his hand at the mission; at worst, he simply keeps his soldiers inside a building, blazes wildly away with their bolt pistols (GW, after all, usually got him to buy an assault squad or two), and then gets overwhelmed, and starts to complain, moving around terrain and generally misbehaving. In both cases, however, The Young One is egged on by a gargantuan crowd of spectators, consisting of at least half the shop's gamers, all the staff, their parents, and a couple of sweet sweepers who sidled in to take in a scene and wonder what that madman in the jumper was shouting about.

The Second sub section of Kid can be classified as "The Pint Sized Pulveriser", for the simple reason that she may well look like a little girl with plaits, but immediately displays the tactical skill of a bizarre union between Zhukov, Guderian and CREEEEEEEEED all together. Her parents leave, laughing to each other, she gets a game, and immediately the gloves are off; she smiles coldly, unclips the figure case, reveals that none of her miniatures are painted, and immediately sets forth on the most obscenely convoluted battle plan known to man, effortlessly anticipating every move the opponent sets. Only Joke Armying Role Players have a prayer, and even they often underestimate her. The battle plan she recites often includes _algebra_, or is simply plain misleading. Finally, as the parents arrive, she snaps the case shut, and leaves the bewildered shop with a "Thanks! You're the best guys everrrr!" Of course, the majority of the players, being teenagers used to course "Your Mom!" jokes being the height of wit, have no manner of response to this. As such, they leave off.

The final type of Kid is "The Inexperienced GW Staffer", and is becoming increasingly common round my end. A shy, dapper man with glasses and an awkward chuckle, his usual job is to be wheeled out whenever the Manager needs some more Doritos, especially when a bunch of obviously fake chavs, gangstas or giggly, slightly tipsy teenage girls turn up for a "tutorial game" when they deliberately get everything wrong for lolling purposes alone. This man, however, knows precious little about the actual rules, with the result that other types of Kid are called in to teach him the basics. When this author (a Large Ham roleplayer, coincidentally) was called in, the results were interesting to say the least. ("Well, Comrade, I'll charge my knights as the practice game Dwarf Warriors, except they aren't Knights, but the Proletariat Leadership Committee, because that's too aristocratic. Forward, Comrades! URRRAH! Lance formation time")

Whilst on the subject of Large Hams….

Category 4: Mr. Testosterone.

This man, always a man, usually about 15-21 years old (but sometimes far younger, easily into Kid territory), runs his game on one principle only: MOAR POWAH! Whenever someone walks past, he will immediately turn and engage them in friendly punches, growls, and wrestling matches. His Khornate Chaos army is built around a similar theme, with "subtle" Chuck Norris references ("MAH LORD IS CHUQ NORRIZ! RESPEK THAT, BEOTCH! YEAHHHHHH!"), with the sole aim of charging up close and dealing as much "Ass Kicking" as possible. As you move, he will watch your troops critically, examining charge distances, and trying to stare them out with a "Chuck Norris/Mr T gaze" which does… nothing. Another tactic of his is to call in a few friends, who arrive (dressed in spiky leather coats and skinheads) to discuss the last time anyone ever got on his bad side.

"You remember that time when Kangaroo Kelly got on your bad side?"

"Not half!"

"Yeah, I whacked her through the French windows with my stuffed bear!"

"YEAHHHHH!"

Worse still, he may discuss his marital or parental difficulties.

"So, right, these punks right, they were trying to make off with Mum's handbag, right, so I twatted 'em."

Or "I can see my tendons in my wrist, see? Ever since Uncle Bob Senior got me, d'you want to have a look? Of course you do, course you do! See, here! Now, don't walk off! I was just about to launch my Bloodletters at those Devestators! They're led by Daemon Lord T, he pities the poor fool who messes with them! CHARGE!" He then demonstrates his "uber kung fu skillz" as he backhands the models into close combat (who needs tape measures?) and dice rolls with his teeth.

Countering such a player is difficult, but not impossible. Keep a cool head, taunt his mother a few times, remind him a few more that there is no place for violence in a wargaming store, and you could distract him just enough to teach his troops the value of five rounds rapid via the Mark VI Ignatius Boltgun. Or, alternately, cause him to collapse from apoplectic fit. I know which I'd prefer.

Category 5: The Handyman

This is a large, stout veteran, with an interesting hat and t shirt, who sits around, comments sardonically, and constantly paints his models. Or gets coffee and chips for everyone. Or discusses recent developments in the gaming world, hinting at how well his army can handle them with precisely no losses. Ever. This is mostly because he never, ever plays. He is simply above this sort of thing, leaving mere mortals to get on with the gaming.

Finally, last but not least:

Category 6: Beware of the quiet man…

Whilst the shouting is raging on, and Mr. Testosterone is lobbing The Kid across the room, and Doritos are being consumed more rapidly than ever, he enters. He is dressed unassumingly, in logo less T Shirt and jeans, and when asked, no one could ever quite determine his age. Pleasantly, he mutters friendly greeting to the staff, and inquires if a game could be played. When the affirmative is given, he, without saying a word, picks a player, and asks for a game. The player, startled, accepts.

What follows is a quiet, utterly ruthless beatdown because, only too late, does the quiet man mention just how many tourneys he has beaten, and how many painting prizes collected. Calmly, with nary a word of backchat (his name, normally, remains a total mystery throughout), he mechanically destroys every single unit, and grabs every single objective, with no resistance being permitted to remain. Once done, he packs up and leaves, with no expression of satisfaction whatsoever. Everyone scratches their heads, and end up returning to their business. He is never mentioned again.

After opponents are discerned, their weaknesses are immediately considered, and the rest of the game is child's play (often literally.) To conclude:

"…that girl out there looks banging! I'd take her in my USS Enterprise any day, and I could too-yeah, way easier than you, Poxy Pete-your birthday do's still on next Thursday? Sweet-I'm taking Claire to that, little minx she is. Lol! Thursday? Yeah, soz mate, Thursday's when this club's taking place, but I'll catch you week after, awright? Siiiiick! Lots of boozing this Thursday, yeah, but I'll stay upright this time, not like with that Death Mix…good game, bad luck with my Land Raider, took that Russ right up the behind, and that's what Darren said after Pete's last do! Safe, bro, and that explosion thing was immense, really was. Sick one! Yeah, Stu, you see that Land Raider, well, the guns are on the right way-pwned, bitches! Oi! Davey-boy, my man, here's my McNuggets, great playing you mate, but I've got an appointment with these bitches…"


End file.
